


open your eyes to death (come to me)

by AgenderCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, So many tropes, and that is all that matters, but it is written, it is done, so many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 05:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16382450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgenderCombeferre/pseuds/AgenderCombeferre





	open your eyes to death (come to me)

The battles are like thunderstorms and, like a child with a fear of the booming noises, Grantaire buries his face in his arms, lost to the world. He starts in his sleep at the sound of the canons, of his friends below screaming, crying, and dying. He hears footsteps below him, bottles breaking and curses being thrown as the movement grows closer to the crow’s nest he’s made of the second floor. The men’s steps are quick an indecicive, as though unsure of where to go. In an instant, several overwhelming movements occur and bodies fall to the floor, and Grantaire freezes. He knew, in the small part of his stomach he allowed to dwell on the subject that he would see his friends’ bloodied bodies, know their grisly deaths intimately as for most he was the only willing to claim them, but he had always imanaged it with a bottle in hand, after he’d been dragged from the remains of  _ Musain _ . He had never imagined stepping over their limbs, being the one to close their unseeing eyes.

Suddenly, he cannot bear to be asleep in this hallowed place, with his friends dying from wounds so close.  He dimly hears movement but does not think of it as he struggleds to stand, to move. When he lifts his eyes he sees a sea of uniforms, backs all turned to him, and through their lines and guns he sees Enjolras, bloodied and beaten. 

“Wait!” He cries, staggering forth. He meets Enjolras’s gaze and his legs seem to strengthen. He steps beyond the bodies of their friends, through theiir ranks, to his side. “I am one of them, I am with them!”

He reaches Enjolras’s side and does not give himself time to doubt, to fill his heart with fear. He holds Enjolras’s gaze while reaching for his hand, Enjolras meeting him halfway and enclasping Grantaire’s hand in his own before turning back to the men who stood before them, their guns unmoved, calling:

“Finish us in one shot.”

The gaurdsmen are visibly disturbed, those of younger age sharing glances of confusion and even amusement. The one in the front - young face, hearty moustache - who seems to be in command has a delicate look on his face. He lowers his weapon, and for a moment his men are even more confused, some outwardly glad for the battle ot be over - until he brings one man to attnetion, saying to the whole of them:

“You, bring the drunkard to me.”

The man does not hasten to obey  and Grantaire feels the grip on his hand tighten, but two men rush forward to restrain Enjolras and Grantaire is taken, deposited before the group, and for a moment, with alll of those guns so close to his face, Grantaire fears he is to be made an example of, that Enjolras will have to watch each and every one of his comrades, his vollunteers,  _ and  _ Grantaire die before him,  _ for him _ , but then a hand is raised and the guns are lowered. Not entirely, still gripped with white-knuckled uncertianty, and unease, but low enough that they cannot shoot to kill.

“Javert was very clear that the people of Paris would not stir, and they have not. It would not do to have two - or , one ,man make a martyr of himself along with their leader. You will take this,” At this, a pistol was produced from the man’s waist, “And you will shoot this young man. You will embody the people’s indifference for revolution and disdain for those who break the law.”

The pistol is forced into Grantaire’s shaking hands and he is turned, blood vacant from his face and eyes wide, to face Enjolras. Enjolras who stands held up by in place by two unwounded men, blood creating shadow on his bright face. Enjolras, whose face glistens in the sun from fresh blood and sweat and something else, his eyes also widened but slightly swollen. Enjolras, who must be freightened beyond his witt’s end, filled with rightious fury, who still manages to give Grantaire a look that is so empothetic and fierce all at once.

“It is alright, Grantaire.” He says, and his arm is twisted painfully, but he continues through gritted teeth. “I do not blame you for their apathy, or for your own. Shoot me if you must, I know that the revolution will live beyond me.”

Grantaire’s hands stiffen and, taking this as a sign of resignation or allowance, his arms are propped up for him, the gun raised to Enjnolras’s head. Enjolras closes his eyes and waits, perhaps sending off one last prayer, a hope for those who will take their place.

But Grantaire’s thoughts are not on the gun or the hands on his arms, or even within himself. His thoughts are stuck on Enjolras’s words, one word in particular.

“I told you, Apollo,” he says, holding the pistol more firmly and the instructing hands fall away. He takes a breath. “I believe in _you_.”

The pistol is flipped and it is the impact of the bullet with the kickback from the gun makes Grantaire fall in a most awkward fashion, but his unmoving face is not one of regret - it is a mix of acceptance, anger, and adoration.

The gaurdsman curses, Enjolras screams, and another pistol is fired, followed by more. Enjolras is silent, as are the gaurdsmen as they watch with horrified fascination as his limp body is held not by the two men, but by the balls protridung from his chest.

The man, the leader, sighs, and commands his men to begin moving the bodies of the men behind them, to pass the command to the men in the street to start the same process there. They leave the two most fresh for a second trip down. As he exits, following his men, the gaurdsman surveys the scene; the blonde man in fiery red, engulfed in sunshine, and the drunkard at his feet. 

_ What,  _ he wonders,  _ Was it for? _

Beyond that room, beyond the veil which sepperates the living from the dead, the blessed from the damned, the same question is poised. There is no answer, but for transparent hands not covered in the blood soaking the skin of their corporeal counterparts to run through sun-soaked hair and lips to press sweetly together in a mutual satisfaction and triumph.


End file.
